


An Affinity with Fire

by Jaygrl22



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Family Feels, Forgiveness, Found Family, Friends to Enemies, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Kinda, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), Multi, Psychic Abilities, Sweet, Team as Family, Technically an AU, Time Skips, honestly i'm just stress writing fics at this point, wow there's a tag for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaygrl22/pseuds/Jaygrl22
Summary: For Elia, “Soothsayer to the Divine” isn’t just a title. It’s a shield. For ten years, the freak mage has wrapped herself in the safety of that title and the lies surrounding it. By the time of the Conclave, there were few still alive who knew the truth. Among them, is the newly acquired Commander of the Inquisition.She and the ex-templar have a history, and it’s… complicated. But now’s not the time. The world is drowning in chaos and more desperate for order than ever. But with her soul clinging to the past and her dreams tangled up in the future, how is Elia meant to deal with her life in the present?
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Mage(s), Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 15





	1. 9:41 Dragon – 10th of Firstfall

**9:41 Dragon – 10** **th** **of Firstfall**

Village of Haven 

When Elia finally awoke, she did so screaming.

Panting, she stared at the ceiling as the room swayed and spun like a ship caught in the midst of a storm. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and grabbed for her journal.

There wasn’t any time to let the dizziness subside. Not now that she _finally_ understood what her dreams had been showing her. It was… It was horrible. And the woman… It wasn’t Justinia, was it? She’d struggled so long to get a firm grasp on the vision but—

The door to her cabin swung open and Elia jumped, dropping her journal, as a pair of guards ran in.

“Are you alright, Lady Soothsayer!?” one asked with her sword drawn.

The other crashed into the first then stumbled into a table. A glass fell and shattered against the ground. As Elia stared at the shards, the blood drained from her face. She tried to swallow the dread creeping up her throat, but it was no use. There was no time to mull over what she’d seen. It would happen too soon for that. She had to assume the worst and _go._

“Where is the Divine?” she asked springing from her bed. “Sister Nightingale and Seeker Pentaghast?”

“Her Holiness is at the temple, my lady,” the first guard answered as Elia moved behind her changing screen. “She requested your presence once you finished dreaming. The Conclave—”

“Must be halted,” Elia said sternly. “Send word to the temple. Have Most Holy taken to safety for the time being. Bring me my horse and tell Sister Nightingale and Seeker Pentaghast to prepare for a fight.”

“A… A fight, Your Ladyship?” the second guard squeaked. “Should we alert Commander Cullen as well?”

Elia’s hand slipped a buckle and she stilled.

Right. That’s right. Cullen— _Commander_ Cullen was here as well.

The two hadn’t seen each other in years. Not since the Incident in Kirkwall. She knew, of course, that Justinia asked Cassandra to seek him out while she was in the Free Marches. She was the one who assured Her he would accept, after all.

She assured Leliana, too, that working together wouldn’t be a problem. At the very least, she promised to be professional.

Just as well, he had to have known accepting Justinia’s offer would mean having _some_ contact with her. She was "The Divine’s Mage", after all.

But even without her gifts, Elia knew enough of the templar that he would work with anyone, anyone at all, even herself, if it meant bringing some sense of peace and order back to the land. He was good like that. And despite their own issues and clashes in belief, she was glad to have another dedicated person on their team.

Even so, she’d done a pretty spectacular job of avoiding him since his arrival.

“A most fascinating dance,” Josephine called it one night, giggling when the mage appeared a perfectly timed 32 seconds after the commander had left. It was childish, sure, but Elia didn’t care. It was better this way, and unless Justinia Herself asked her to do any different, she was going to _keep_ _it_ this way.

There was just too much history between the two of them. Too many memories and too much pain that the mere _thought_ of running into the ex-templar dredged up. So even if others called it odd or silly, it didn’t matter. For Elia, it was better than the alternative.

Besides, eventually, she and the Divine would return to Orlais. Staying amongst the forming Inquisition would be too conspicuous. The distance would spread the focus of their enemies and even cull some suspicions of Justinia’s motives. Not all, of course. But it would be better than nothing. And Justinia, master of The Game that she was, could pull her strings better from the Sunburst Throne anyway.

The distance would help Elia, too. Her dreams would be clearer once she got away from whatever it was that was messing with her here. There would be more work for her to do then, and less time to spend agonizing over old ghosts she didn’t want to face.

Cullen’s presence in her mind would fade once he was farther away. He would rejoin the rest of the ghosts, only coming to the surface when an old memory clawed its way there. But even then, it would only last a moment before fading away. And she would get on with her day. Just like she always did.

Yes. Everything would go back to some version of normal sooner or later, she told herself. She just had to suffer through until then.

“My lady?” the guard called after too long a pause. “Should we alert the commander as well?” he asked again.

Right. Elia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _Right_. This wasn’t the time to think of such things.

She opened them again and focused on the task in front of her.

“Yes,” she muttered, continuing with her armor, “the commander as well. Now get going. Time is of the essence.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Elia hurried to finish dressing as their footfalls clambered across the floor and out into the snow. There were only so many warnings before her dreams unfolded in the physical world, and one – the shattering glass – had already passed. Even worse, she didn’t even know what most of the warnings were this time.

Lately, all her dreams had been tinged red and frayed at the edges. She could barely make anything out. Everything jerked around so chaotically, warping from one scene to the next and back again so haphazardly, it left her nauseous.

The only other time her dreams acted up in such a way was on her last visit to Kirkwall. But even then, the… _interference_ , for lack of a better term, hadn’t been so intense. Her dreams hadn’t been confusing or stomach-churning. Only scattered and hazy from the red static that now overwhelmed her.

Here, in this tiny village that was once filled with cultists, the interference had been plaguing her for weeks. Every night, her head spun with tiny, garbled fragments drenched in red. Every morning, she woke sick to her stomach and incomprehensibly terrified. It was just another reason to leave this wretched place as soon as possible in her opinion.

She hated being in the dark like this, on the edge of knowing but unable to make the necessary connections. She hated having nothing concrete to give to Justinia. The older woman was as understanding as She could be, but the Conclave was too important. Too much was at stake. Unnamable fear wasn’t good enough.

“Dream until it is clear,” Justinia ordered her. “Sleep as often as you can. Take sleeping draughts if you must, but we _must_ know what is coming, Elia. The Maker gave you these gifts for times like these. We must not let Him, or the people of Thedas, down.”

And because she was bound to Her, and, more importantly, because she agreed, Elia did just that.

Most of her time in the small village was spent in bed. She burned herbs, took sleeping draughts, and drank warmed milk until she fell into such a dead slumber nothing could wake her. Some were beginning to worry demons might overtake her or that she might even get stuck in the Fade – if that was even truly where her unconscious mind went to receive her visions – but it didn’t matter. It helped Elia come closer and closer to piecing her miserable dream together, and that’s what the Divine wanted. So that’s what she did.

And it paid off.

Now that she’d finally seen it clearly – well, clear _enough_ – she finally understood the fear she woke with, the horror that swam hand-in-hand with the nausea.

Her fingers trembled as she laced her boots. When was the last time a vision had left her so frightened? Was it the first time she dreamt of the Archdemon flying overhead? The bloodshed at Kinloch Hold? The coming of the war?

All of them shook her to her very core. And yet this one was worse. Far, _far_ worse.

Ash and blood covering the scorched earth. A devoured sky. Millions of deaths across the world playing out in a single instant; each dying scream colliding into one thundering cry. The world in red, bloody chaos. The Veil itself torn asunder. A sea of demons kneeling before an unseeable creature; a dark god, a king of evils, a monster of impossible power.

She shuddered. “One thing at a time,” she told herself. “One foot, then the other.”

Johanna’s advice from all those years ago came back to her. “There’s no sense tripping over your trousers to get to the future on time,” she’d said with a grin.

Elia smiled briefly at the memory until a knock came at the door.

“I have your horse, my lady,” a voice said through the wood.

“Thank you, I’ll be right out!” Elia finished fastening her fur-lined coat. She secured a pair of daggers to her hips and picked up her staff. With one hand on the door, she let herself pause to take a breath.

Her heart pounded fearfully in her chest. Dread rolled off her in waves. Her armor, light as it was, felt weighed down by it; as if it had been enchanted to capture her fears and shackle them to her.

She scoffed. As if she needed any help being dragged down.

With a shake of her head, she took another long breath. It would be okay. Her vision would not come to pass. Justinia – if that even _was_ the woman she saw in her dream – would be fine. She was acting as fast as the Maker would allow. Besides, He wouldn’t let His most ordained servant be harmed in such a way… _Right?_

Elia nodded, reassuring herself. She straightened her stance and put on a brave face. Everything would be fine.

She stepped out of her warm cabin and into the chilly Frostback air. Despite her thick coat, she still shivered against the muted wind. Flint, a majestic grey stallion, was glad to see her and nuzzled against her hand — still impossibly warm despite how cold she felt.

They rode out of Haven and along the pilgrim’s path as fast as Flint’s hooves could carry them through the crowd. She could feel the panic building again. The sheer number of people heading up to the temple made her breathing pick up.

The continuous stream of mages and templars that hadn’t eased in days. Then there was the handful of nobles and Dalish curious to see the peace talk’s results, the merchants and mercenaries all looking to make a good profit, the ambitious Chantry members and eager scholars, the scheming politicians and everyday Andrastians all coming together. All in the wake of coming tragedy.

She didn’t want to believe her dream would come so soon, that the Maker would allow such a thing to happen. She didn’t want to set off waves of hysteria for something that shouldn’t— wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ happen. But the deep, hollow, vibrating fear in her chest was impossible to ignore.

Elia had seen the Maker’s will done more times than she cared to count. She did not pretend to understand His plan, but she had seen the devastation it wrought, the pain it left behind. She felt the heartless horror it could unleash, heard the echoing screams of His deafening silence. To trust that He would turn His gaze upon the world now, _now_ of all times, was foolish. Nothing but a reminder of her past naivety — and mistakes.

Elia stood in her stirrups and screamed for people to move out of the way, to go back. She shrieked that danger was coming, that the temple was unsafe.

The slow tide slowed and stumbled to a stop as people turned toward her loud, piercing voice. Confusion and uncertainty spread quickly among them.

Someone shouted that she was a madwoman. Another called her crazy. A freak. She kept screaming.

Someone called out her title. Then another. And another. As people recognized that title, her one saving grace, they began to move. Soon, there was a wide part in the path for the Soothsayer and her steed to tear across.

On either side, people began to push and shove. Some did not trust her word. Others didn’t know who or what a Soothsayer was. But the wave of Andrastians who _did_ trust and know of her – or at least what the Chantry _told_ them of her – was large enough to begin turning back the marching sea. That eased her heart a bit. If word continued to move fast enough, lives would be saved regardless of the Maker’s lacking gaze. Or maybe this _was_ part of His plan...

Either way, Elia continued to shout, and the people continued carrying her message forward. When she finally arrived at the base of the temple, some were already hurrying to their mounts or rushing to find those they came with. She was grateful but wasted no time on the minor relief.

She jumped off Flint and bolted into the temple. She weaved between a group of panicked mages and a pack of Carta dwarves to get to the main hall. A templar grabbed at her, demanding to know what was happening, but Elia spun just out of her reach and kept running.

Justinia was alright. Surely, she was alright. She had to be. Elia had acted as quickly as possible. She’d sent word ahead with the guards, and then again with those traveling the pilgrim’s path. Most Holy had surely been whisked away by now. Elia was only checking to save her own nerves. That was all.

The Divine was safe. The conclave would be postponed for the time being, and the temple would be searched from bottom to top, but peace talks would eventually resume. The war would end. They’d return to Orlais. The world would right. Everything would be fine. Everything _was_ fine.

There was no reason to panic, she told herself. None at all. Everything was completely and totally fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> This story is going to be a creative challenge/exercise for me as it’s going to be told more-or-less non-linearly. There may be some chapters that pick up where the last one left off, but in general, we’re going to be popping all across the games’ timeline and picking up a few codex entries along the way! 
> 
> I’ll be putting the year and date at the top of each chapter. If you want a link to the Thedosian calendar or the official timeline let me know but please know that (other than the year), I'm seriously guesstimating most of the dates.
> 
> There’s also bit of divergence from canon here, as you’ve probably already started to notice, but I hope you’ll give this fic a shot anyway! 🥰


	2. 9:29 Dragon – 23rd  of Bloomingtide

**9:29 Dragon – 23rd** **of Bloomingtide**

Ferelden's Circle Tower

There was no reason to panic, he told himself. None at all. Everything was completely and totally fine.

Cullen absolutely hadn't misplaced part of his uniform before his first official shift in the Circle's Tower, Andraste no! His things were just… not currently where they were supposed to be. That was all.

As calmly as he could, the junior Templar checked, once again, under his bed and in the trunk at the foot of it. He couldn't understand it. He'd laid everything out the night before. His sash and helmet were there then, he was sure of it.

He was a very neat person. Always had been. His older sister, Mia, teased him for it often enough as children, but his superiors praised his tidy manner throughout his training. In fact, it wouldn't surprise him if his tidiness had ended up on part of his official report. Which was why losing his belongings today of all days, his very _first_ day of official duty, was so awful.

Thankfully, he wasn't the only one with such rotten first-day luck. His fellow juniors – Thomas, Rita, and Samuel – were also scrambling with their uniforms. Thomas even accused Samuel of stealing his greaves, but Samuel couldn't find his own greaves let alone Thomas's. Rita told both of them to shove it while she searched high and low for her boots.

A few of the older templars snickered and shook their heads at the new recruits as they passed. As Cullen's face reddened, he couldn't help but feel he was missing some kind of joke. When he turned and saw the knight-commander himself strolling towards them, all that blood ran from his face.

"Knight-Commander!" he said loud enough to warn his fellows. All four of them quickly stood at attention, one of them – probably Rita – swearing under their breath. "Good morning, ser!"

"Morning," the old templar greeted staunchly.

Cullen kept his eyes fixed on the wall straight ahead. A lump formed in his throat as his superior's gaze raked over him. Shame pooled in his stomach. He really didn't know how he – _he_ of all people! – could've let this happen.

Knight-Commander Greagoir walked from one junior to the next, taking stock. When he finished, he hmphed and strode to the front of them.

"So," he began, "two helmets, a sash, two pairs of greaves, and a pair of boots. Anything else?"

There was a beat of silence. Behind him, the other juniors shifted in their unfinished uniforms.

Cullen swallowed the lump and addressed the Knight-Commander. "Else, ser?"

"Yes, anything else missing? They usually take more. Though," he muttered, crossing his arms, "they may have been thrown by how many of you there are this time around."

Their things had been _taken?_ By who? And why? It wasn't like their uniforms were any different from the other— _oh_.

Cullen's tight posture fell at once. He frowned. He was right before. The other templars _were_ laughing at them. It was some kind of initiation joke. _Wonderful_.

"Knight-Commander!" Another templar – was Drack the name? Draz? – came up the stairs from the third floor. He jerked a hand over his shoulder. "Mutt's at the bottom of the stairs, ser. Claims not to know anything about who did it, of course, – not that there's any guess – but came to help anyway."

The knight-commander nodded. "Good. That will save some time. You four—" Cullen straightened up again "—go with Drass. He'll introduce you to the runt who'll help you find your things."

A knot formed in Cullen's brow. Did they have a mabari here in The Tower? Surely he would've noticed it before if they did. Or were they talking about a mage?

He knew some templars said the word "mage" with a sneer, like it left a bad taste in their mouth, and he heard mages called plenty of names during his years of training, but he didn't think he'd hear such names _here._ In an actual _Circle._

It seemed a little… low. Not to mention rude. He hadn't heard any name-calling the day before, though, so maybe this was just a particularly unliked mage.

"As soon as you're properly uniformed," the knight-commander continued, "report to your stations. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!" they said together, saluting him.

"And Ser Drass, bring me those troublemakers, will you? I'll be having another word with Irving about them."

"Yes, ser." Then Ser Drass nodded at the recruits to follow him.

Cullen did so eagerly. He wasn't keen on being seen without his uniform properly donned, but he was excited to see the mages again. He knew their duty by heart and understood it well. Magic existed to serve man, and the Order existed to keep that magic in check, to protect people.

Even so, he was excited to see some mages in action. They were always made out to be these incredibly powerful creatures, gifted with magic by the Maker Himself — or cursed, some argued.

So, despite the hour of their arrival yesterday, he'd expected to see something amazing upon entering The Tower. But instead, there were just… people.

People hanging about, eating supper, skimming books. Some were old and grey; some were younger than his youngest sister. But none of them had glowing eyes or wild hair like in the stories. None of them looked as if they could single-handedly turn the tide of a battle.

One or two of the elves did have some of those Dalish tattoos, but beyond that, all the mages looked disappointingly normal. But that was the thing about magic and mages, and why apostates could often hide so well before a templar showed up with their phylactery. They looked more normal than most people believed.

"So who took our things?" Thomas asked on their way down.

"The Tower's resident troublemakers," Ser Drass said curtly. "Riffraff. You'll meet them soon enough, I'm sure. The _Orlesian_ in particular enjoys making an impression on our newest recruits."

"Are they mages?" Cullen asked.

"Of course they're not mages," Rita answered him, glaring. "Templars are _never_ bested by mages."

Drass scoffed. "Get that idea out of your head now, girl. We are well equipped, but not indomitable."

Rita scowled at the floor.

"Besides, these mages aren't a danger. Just a pain in the arse."

"So who's helping us?" Thomas asked.

The older templar sighed. "A very _weird_ mage."

Cullen grinned again. A small piece of him was disappointed The Tower truly didn't have any dogs, but a much larger piece was excited to get to work with a mage.

"Aren't all mages a bit weird, though?" Samuel argued.

"Not like this one," Drass said shaking his head.

As they reached the third floor, Cullen saw a woman sitting on the bottom stair, hunched over her knees. Her hair was fluffy and white like cream, and just long enough to fall past her jaw.

"Hey, mutt!" Drass called. The woman jerked upright.

Cullen frowned again. Likable or not, he couldn't agree with the idea of calling an elderly woman names. It was unbecoming of a Knight of the Order, in his opinion.

But as the woman quickly stood and turned toward them, Cullen found that he was wrong. _Extremely_ wrong. He balked at the woman. Despite the color of her hair, she wasn't old at all. In fact, she was quite young. Perhaps even younger than himself.

He couldn't believe his luck! _This_ was a mage from the storybooks. There was no mistaking someone like _her_ for normal. Her near-white hair was where it started, but her strangeness just kept going.

Her features were a bizarre mixture. He couldn't even begin to guess her origin but assumed it wasn't Ferelden. Her eyes were gentle and open, though a bit big for her face and an unsettling color. A sort of bluish hue perhaps, but all Cullen could think of was a thin, glassy sheet of ice.

The angry scar that started above her left eye and stopped just below her cheekbone seemed to pop against her otherwise smooth complexion. Her skin was a sickly sort of pale that likewise clashed with the rosy blush on her cheeks.

Hunching her shoulders, trying to shrink her already smallish figure – too big to be petite and yet too little not to be –, she looked as if she had just come in from the cold. Actually no. She looked like she _was_ the cold.

He couldn't stop himself from smiling. _This_ was what he imagined mages to look like. Everything about her was simply _odd_. Far more than any other mage he'd seen thus far, he could easily imagine this girl calling forth a mighty blizzard or icy blast.

Except, she didn't actually _look_ like she could do something like that. Her eyes were too big and her posture too meek. She was young, too. Barely his age – he couldn't get over that – and wearing robes with far less detail than some of the older mages. She was likely an apprentice then, but she could still probably manage a small flurry at least.

"Alright, mutt—" the mage tried to make herself even smaller and, again, Cullen couldn't help but frown at the name-calling "—you're to help these four find the rest of their uniforms, understand me? If you try anything—"

Her ice-colored eyes widened and she shook her head quickly, her thick hair moving like the tiniest snow squall.

Drass's frown twitched. "Right," he muttered, turning his head. "You're smarter than those idiots," he said to himself.

The mage looked down. Her hands moved from the front of her body to clutch at the fabric of her blue-purple robes.

He sighed. "You really ought to think about getting better friends, mutt." Cullen might've imagined it, but he thought he heard a bit of concern in Ser Drass's voice. "One of these days, you're going to get caught in the crossfire of their nonsense, and then where will you be?"

The mage bit her lip, opened her mouth and closed it again. She looked up. "I think…" she said in a small voice, then turned her eyes down again. "I think I'm only still around… _because_ of their nonsense, ser."

Drass smiled and tilted his head at her. "You might be right there."

She gave a shaky smile in return.

The templar cleared his throat and grew stern again. "Do you know where those lot are now?"

She shook her head, slower this time. "Lavender was gone before I woke up, and Hush— Tarelen, _sorry_ , wasn't in his quarters. I haven't seen Kàde yet, either."

"Alright," he huffed. He threw a hand over his shoulder and made off in the direction of the next flight of stairs. "Get to it then."

"Yes, ser," she squeaked, sending a small bow after him. She glanced toward the remaining templars, keeping her eyes as low as she could. "Um…"

"So you're the mutt?" Thomas asked. "The runt?"

Right away, Cullen noticed a difference in the way Thomas used those names. While he hadn't necessarily _heard_ a fondness in the older templars' words, he definitely heard the _absence_ of it from Thomas.

"I'm sure she has a _proper_ name we could use," he scolded.

"She's a mage," Rita huffed. "Does it really matter?"

"She's _right_ in front of us, Rita," Samuel said pointedly.

" _So?"_

Samuel sighed. Cullen shook his head.

"Um, who—" Cullen turned quickly back to the mage. A little too quickly apparently, because she jumped and shut her mouth right away.

What a strange person! He never imagined someone with such powers would be so timid!

"Were you going to say something, miss?" he prompted.

She stared at him. Her big eyes were somehow even bigger than before and her face went red again like she was out in the cold.

After a moment of working her mouth, she finally spoke. "Who… Who's missing the boots?"

"D'you know where they are?" Rita ordered marching closer.

The mage took a few steps back and nodded quickly. "You'll find them by the main door."

"The main door? You mean all the way at the _bottom_ of the tower?"

She nodded.

"Maker's _balls!_ But my shift's on this floor! I've got to go all the way down and come back up?" Rita groaned loudly then started marching for the stairs. "When I find those mages what did this, I swear on Andraste's holy ass, I'm gonna—!"

"Ignore her," Cullen said quickly when he noticed the mage's eyes grow the size of dinner plates. "Rita's always had, uh, a bit of a temper."

She bit her lip and pursed her brows but nodded all the same. "I… I'm not sure where the rest of your things ended up," she told him. "Um… The, uh, metal… covering… _things?"_

Cullen nodded, urging her on. "The greaves."

"Right. Those. They're in bookcases but, um…" She glanced around them.

Samuel sighed."The Tower's full of bookcases," he said for her. " _Great_."

"They were, um, _tall_ bookcases, I think?"

"Did _you_ hide them, mutt?" Thomas asked with that same coldness as before.

She shook her head quickly, her short hair flying again. "No, no! I just—" Her face went red and she lowered her head. "I just saw where they're at. Sort of."

"Sort of? Either you know where they're at or you don't."

"I don't." For an instant, her voice was surprisingly sharp. "But I know where some of them… um… It… It's hard to explain to, um, new... people…"

"Is it a mage thing?" Cullen asked, realizing too late how curious he sounded. The mage and his fellow juniors all gave him odd looks. His cheeks warmed. "I mean, uh…" He cleared his throat, trying to buy himself some time. Maker, why was he like this?

"No," the mage said suddenly. Cullen blinked up at her, surprised to find her smiling at him. "It's just a me thing. I'm a bit… _strange_. Even for a mage." She tilted her head at him and looked him over. "You must be missing… that red sash you all wear?"

He nodded. "And my helmet."

Her face opened with surprise. "Your helmet?"

"Mine, too," Samuel added.

She pouted, glaring down at the ground. "I didn't see any helmets," she grumbled to herself. "But anyway," she turned to Cullen again, "I think I _do_ know where your sash is. I saw something like one my way up here, but I was hoping it—"

"You saw a templar's sash just out and about and didn't think to bring it up to the barracks?"

Cullen could've smacked Thomas. The mage instantly stopped talking. She turned her glassy eyes down and stuttered out an apology.

"I-I'll go get it now for you, ser."

"We'll come with you," Cullen offered, sending Thomas a look. He wasn't very convincing on his own, he knew, but Samuel – who, despite their difference in size, bested Thomas every time they sparred – was also giving him a stern look.

Their burly companion huffed but didn't disagree. They followed the odd mage down the next flight of stairs. The best she could offer Thomas and Samuel on their greaves was that they were tucked into tall bookcases and that The Tower's tallest bookcases were generally on the first-floor library. Cullen's sash on the other hand was on the second floor.

Thomas grumbled and complained, but Samuel thanked her and pulled his friend along to the next flight of stairs. Cullen and the mage followed them only a few steps before stopping. The mage rolled her eyes upward and sighed.

"Everything alright, miss?"

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Then pointed up. " _That's_ why I was hoping no one was missing a sash."

Cullen followed her finger to the ceiling and his mouth dropped open. There, tied to one of the many intricate structural arches at the center of the ceiling, was a red templar sash tied in a large bow. _His_ sash.

"How in the Maker's name— How could anyone even get up there? Can you mages _fly?_ " he asked her. "They didn't teach us that in training!"

She barked out a laugh. The sound was so much louder and stronger than anything else he'd heard from her. She quickly covered her mouth, but couldn't hide the brightness of her eyes.

Cullen could only stare. For a brief moment, the strange, meek mage looked… not normal, exactly. He didn't think someone like her really _could_ look normal. But her shoulders weren't hovering and her eyes weren't wide and jumpy. She still kept her hands in front of her body, but they were no longer shaking or fidgeting.

Comfortable, he decided. She looked comfortable.

He was amazed at the transformation. Was it because she thought he was funny? He wasn't _trying_ to be funny. Should he try to be funny?

"Oh, well, you know what they say."

She tilted her head and smiled up at him.

His mind went blank. "Uh…" He wracked his brain for something, _anything_ to say to this girl.

"Yes?" she egged, her smiling face folding into confusion. "What do they say?"

"Uh…" His cheeks started to burn again. "Well… um…"

The girl's eyes lit up. She chomped down on her lip, covered her mouth, and turned her head but her laughter still escaped through tiny snickers and shaking shoulders.

Cullen's face burned all the way up to his ears.

"C-Could you—" He cleared his throat. He didn't dare look at her. "Could you forget I said anything? Please?"

The girl giggled again, then took a quick breath. "Consider it forgotten, ser." He could hear the smile in her voice.

Maker, _why_ was he like this? This was awful. _Painfully_ awful. She probably thought he was an idiot. An incompetent moron who just barely managed to make it into the Order. He frowned.

"I'm… I'm sorry, ser," she murmured quietly. Cullen managed to look at her then and was surprised to find her staring down at the floor. "I know I shouldn't be laughing with you like this."

 _With_ him? She was laughing _with_ him? He was meant to be laughing too? At himself? That didn't seem right.

The girl's hands moved in front of her again, fidgeting.

"It's… fine." It wasn't, really, but he didn't want to scare her back into her jumpy state.

But the girl just shook her head. "It could start rumors," she said so low Cullen wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"Rumors?" he said just as quietly.

She nodded subtly and began working her mouth to say something. She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear.

" _Oh!"_

She jerked at his outburst.

"Sorry," he said nervously. He still didn't agree with it, but at least he understood why Ser Drass called her a mutt. "Forgive me, it's just… I noticed…" He pointed to the side of his head, then hers. "Your ears."

Like so many of her features, they were a bit off. They perfectly fit the thin-but-too-large pattern of the rest of her. That was all he'd noticed of them at first. But when she tucked her hair, it exposed the way her ears sloped upward. How they folded into a tight, unmistakable point at their tip.

The girl's eyes went wide. Her pale fingers darted to her hair, pulling it forward to try and cover the ear again, but it was too late.

To be honest, Cullen didn't know much about half-elves. He wasn't even sure if he'd ever met one before. They were, supposedly, somewhat common but usually came across almost entirely human, making it hard to tell. This one, though… well… Now that he knew what he was looking at, it was hard to unsee it.

Her features were suddenly easy to identify: a humanlike nose connected to a traditionally sharp elven bridge; elfish eyes surrounded by human cheeks; an elven jaw sloping into a human's chin; a human body struggling to fit an elf's height and frame.

It was easy to understand now why she was so timid and nervous. Her panicked expression told Cullen all he needed to know.

He'd known right away that she was different from the others— he _liked_ that about her. But surely others noticed that right away, too. Most people _didn't_ like different. In fact, that was part of the reason many mages were feared in the first place. They weren't normal _._

And this girl? Even amongst her magical peers, she was different. She was strange even among the strange.

Cullen frowned. What a lonely way to be.

"My apologies, miss, I—"

"I'll go and get your sash now, ser!" she shrieked turning on her heel.

Cullen reached after her and started to call after her, but the nearby torches suddenly convulsed. Their flames grew to twice their normal size, making the young templar jump at the sight.

The fire sputtered and thrashed around unnaturally. Cullen quickly went through the motions of dispelling the magic – because surely that only could have been done by magic – and the flames puckered and popped. They resisted a moment but quickly shrank down to their usual size without too much of a fight. When Cullen was sure they wouldn't erupt again, he let out a shaky breath.

Right. This wasn't some little day trip where he could fool around. He was a proper templar knight now. And this was the Circle. He was stationed here, in Ferelden's Circle Tower, to help protect people. Specifically the mages. It was his duty to keep his head at all times and be vigilant, for their sake as well as his.

But, speaking of vigilance, where did the girl run off to?

Cullen frowned at himself. Why had he not introduced himself earlier and asked her name? She was a mage, sure, but… well... They were both going to see more of each other anyway, right? They were going to be living together in The Tower for the foreseeable future. They might as well be on good terms, right? And it was the polite thing to do, regardless.

He went through the nearest doorway, one she might've gone through, but didn't see any sign of the white-haired mage. A few of the mages in the room gave him a once over or glanced between him and the open ceiling above.

"That girl's going to get herself in serious trouble one of these days," one of them murmured to another.

"Well, if _that one's_ uniform is anything to go by—" Cullen felt his cheeks warm, sure this one was talking _just_ loud enough for him to overhear "—I'd say the troublemakers are at it again, and the runt's brown-nosing, as usual."

"Can you blame her?" the first mage asked, lowering his voice further. "The templars probably would've made her tranquil ages ago if she didn't, poor thing."

"Some mages are just meant for tranquility," the second shrugged.

"That's hardly fair, Enchanter."

The enchanter scoffed. " _You_ try teaching her, then."

Cullen exited the room quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. His insides squirmed. He knew they were talking about the white-haired mage but hoped they were mistaken. Even so, he knew the enchanter was right. If it was safer for a mage to be made tranquil than attempt a harrowing, then that was what had to happen. Even if it felt a little heartless, sometimes it simply was better to use the Rite.

Still, hoped his new acquaintance wouldn't have to go through with that. She was a nice girl and deserved a chance.

As he walked toward the next room, an older templar passed him by. They shared a nod, but Cullen noticed how their eyes fell to his unfinished uniform. His senior chuckled then glanced toward the structural arches. They shook their head and continued on their way.

Cullen sighed. Wondering how in the world anyone could have gotten his sash up there in the first place – and how the white-haired mage was planning to get it down –, he turned his attention to the ceiling again.

His jaw dropped and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Up there, kneeling on one of the underhangings of an arch, balancing expertly on the balls of her feet, was the white-haired mage.

Cullen watched, transfixed, as the girl carefully untied the red bow. How did she get up there so fast? Who _was_ this mage? What kind of magical prowess did she possess that let her scale impossible heights and "sort of know" where things were? And how was she still a likely candidate for tranquility with such prowess?

The mage rolled up the freed sash into a tight ball. With one hand clutching a carving in the stone, she leaned outward and gestured the ball towards Cullen. He hurried closer and opened his arms as she tossed it down to him. The fabric unfurled as it fell through the air.

Cullen caught it and smiled up at the mage, making note of her reddened cheeks as she carefully maneuvered herself back against the arch. Still smiling, he worked to quickly tie his sash and _finally_ be properly uniformed. He still needed his helmet of course, but at least now he wouldn't be so obviously underdressed.

He glanced back up at the mage again and was amazed to find her already gone. He stared up at the arches and moved around the center structure to see if she was somewhere on the other side, but no. She was _gone_.

Cullen walked around, peeking into different rooms and studying the high, open ceiling until he'd circled the entire floor. He frowned at the stone beneath him then lifted his eyes to the arch one last time, half expecting her to appear out of thin air. When that didn't happen, he sighed and made his way back up to the third floor, to his post.

He could thank her and make a proper introduction later, he told himself. It wasn't like either of them would be leaving The Tower any time soon. There was always tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that for them to run into each other.

Truly, they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first time writing from Cullen's pov. He seemed like such a sweetheart pre-Broken Circle so I hope I was able to capture that and keep him true to his core character.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! xo💕


	3. 9:41 Dragon – 13th of Firstfall

**9:41 Dragon – 13th of Firstfall**

Village of Haven

Truly, there didn't feel like enough time in the world.

The woman tried to grasp where she was, what had happened, why she was here… but she didn't know. Her mind was completely vacant.

A severe sense of déjà vu made her head spin. Her breathing and heart rate accelerated. Whatever was happening, something similar had happened to her before. She was sure of it. But what? When? And why was it happening again?

"Elia?" a voice called. The owner's accent wrapped around the word, pulling at every syllable in a way that was almost recognizable.

With a sword at her hip and a shield across her back, the woman stepping forward was clearly some kind of soldier. Her face was firm and scarred, yet soft with relief. Parts of it were covered with dirt and dried blood, as if she'd tried to clean it before forgoing the effort. A tight, thin braid of cropped black hair wrapped around her head like a crown, pieces of it sticking out in every direction.

"Oh, thank the Maker you're awake! I was so worried, I—" She halted herself. Her shoulders squared and her brows tensed. "What the hell was that?" she asked in a rough, clipped tone.

The lost woman sat up carefully and glanced around the cabin, trying to garner some clue for what was going on. With the windows shut tight by thick, makeshift curtains, the smell of lavender and burnt fabric was almost overwhelming. The only light in the space came from the fireplace beside her bed, but she could still see through the shadows easily enough.

Speckles of burnt fabric permeated the quilt she laid on as well as the rug on the floor. There was a desk cluttered with books and dried herbs along the other wall, a chair at her bedside, and four guards watching them in the entryway. None of that told her anything but what she already knew: she was in trouble.

"What was… what?" she finally asked.

"Don't play dumb with me, Elia," the soldier growled. "What the hell happened? Why didn't you warn us in time? How could you let this happen? Do you have any idea—" The soldier stormed closer. "Was this your doing? Did you _plan_ for this to happen?"

The woman, "Elia", scooted back until she was a tight ball in the corner. The flames in the fireplace spat and flailed, growing in height and heat.

"I… I don't know! I don't know what you're talking about! What happened? What's going on?"

"You tell me!" The woman towered over the bed and jabbed a finger at Elia. _"You_ waited until the last possible moment to warn us. In fact, you didn't warn us! You told us to prepare for a fight and nothing more! Did you _want_ this to happen? Is that why you kept the future to yourself all this time?"

"Kept the— _What!?_ I, I don't understand!"

"That's enough, Cassandra," a new, cool voice called. A woman in a purple cowl stepped into the cabin. Her dark, thick attire didn't match the soft grace of her steps.

"Cassandra?" Elia murmured. The name was familiar to her.

The soldier jerked her head towards her, scowling. _"What?"_ she snapped. That felt familiar, too.

Elia stared up at her then noticed the guards stepping out. As they went, she spotted another set stationed just outside.

Once the door shut, the hooded woman moved to join Cassandra by her bedside. Elia couldn't quite place her, but as she stepped closer, she recognized the red of her hair and her long, thin face. Her presence brought on an old sense of comfort, but the piercing suspicion in her stare felt like a knife to the chest.

Elia lowered her eyes. She felt… awful. But why? What had she done? She knew these women. She was sure of it. Had she hurt them somehow? Her heart pinched at the thought.

"I don't… I really don't know what happened. It sounds like it might've been my fault, but…" She shook her head and lifted it. "I don't know. I honestly don't know what's happening. I can't remember anything."

"That isn't good enough," the redhead rebuked. "There must be something you remember."

Elia pinned her eyes to the woman. She was so familiar. Even more so than Cassandra. Despite her detached expression – something that already felt unbelievably wrong –, Elia knew this woman was angry. Hurting.

She turned away from them. These people were important to her, she knew that much. Her feelings were clearer than her mind, but it was starting to catch up. She knew these women. They trusted each other – or were supposed to at least. What had she done to lose that trust?

A bomb went off in her hand. She cried out as it burst open and a green flame shot up her arm. She fell over as the strange magic tore through her veins, shattering her bones and searing every inch of her skin.

The green flame disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. Elia clutched at her trembling arm as the pain eased. Somehow, it was not destroyed. Her muscles spasmed, but the bones weren't broken. Her nerves weren't deadened.

"Maker help us," Cassandra griped. "You and your flames."

All at once things felt… heavy. As if the world was trying to collapse around her and hold her down. She lifted her shaky head to find a bright bluish light glittering around them. It snuffed out the fires she had unintentionally summoned and made her magic too "dense" to summon any more. The sensation was uncomfortable but not unfamiliar.

Once all the fire was dispelled, Cassandra lifted the templar-like ability and turned to Elia again.

"This is the first time you've been awake when that happened," she said frowning. "I was hoping you'd stop catching fire once you woke but that was worse than before."

"Sounds like my luck," Elia grumbled, struggling to sit up again. Her left palm continued to emit an acidic green light. She regarded it carefully. "I don't see how I could've slept through anything that painful…"

A hand rested on the shoulder of her good arm. Elia looked into the troubled blue eyes of her old friend and remembered her name.

"Leliana… What is this thing?"

The former bard glanced at her hand, then studied her for a moment before moving back. Her features were still guarded but not as cold as before. "We don't know. But every time the Breach widens, so too does that mark. If it continues, it will likely kill you."

Elia furrowed her brows and looked over the mark again. She really only understood that last part, but... _Really?_ She'd fought and survived so many harrowing things in her life, and yet _this_ was what would kill her? This little glowing scar? Was this the Maker's idea of a joke?

As if enraged by her dismissiveness, the mark exploded again. Elia shrilled and tumbled to the floor. The violent pain took all her focus. Her magic flailed in protest, erupting fire along her body and shooting the flames in the fireplace up to the cabin's ceiling.

It ceased with breathtaking swiftness, just as it had the first time. Elia trembled wildly under the force of her magic being pressed down again.

"Leli," she gasped. "Cass…" The two women were much further from her than they'd been before. A safer distance. "What's happening? What is this magic? Why is it attacking me? My magic— My magic is trying to fight back, but what the hell—" Elia struggled to fit the air in her lungs. "What is this thing!?"

Cassandra stepped forward. "Then you… You really don't know what happened? What is happening now… You truly don't know?"

Elia shook her head quickly, her white hair flying in and out of her vision with the motion. "I remember… I remember the Conclave was starting soon… That I was sleeping a lot…"

That, ironically enough, was her clearest memory of what had happened. Sleeping. _Constantly_ sleeping in an attempt to make sense of that disorienting dream. Justinia needed to know the different outcomes of the peace talks but she could never actually figure out—

An intense feeling of horror clutched at her stomach, squeezing her insides into a tight ball. The feeling slithered up her throat, choking her.

No. No, she did figure out her dream. Didn't she? She couldn't remember. But she must have. Cassandra said she had warned them _too late_. To warn them at all meant she knew something of what was happening, even if she couldn't remember it now.

"I must've told someone what was coming. I wouldn't have kept something so important to myself." She glanced around again. "Where's Justinia? I must've told her—"

Cassandra bristled and pinched her eyes shut. Leliana stilled.

Elia blinked. No one said anything.

She slowly looked from one to the other. "Where… Where's Justinia?"

Cassandra spurred on her heel and moved with rampant, directionless energy. She marched toward the fireplace taking quick, labored breaths.

"The Divine—" Her chest rose and fell several times. "Justinia— Most Holy—" She struggled another moment until her strong shoulders fell. The heavy silence returned.

A burning sensation hit Elia's eyes. "No… Please, Maker, no..."

"Most Holy is dead," Leliana confirmed in a tight, harsh voice. "And many, _many_ others." She stared at Elia for a quiet second then spun sharply toward the door. "Come. There is work to do and no time to waste."

Cassandra cleared her throat roughly. "Grab your things, Elia," she said going after her. "We have demons to fight."

Elia nodded quietly then jerked her head up. _"Demons?"_ But Cassandra was already out the door. So Elia did as she was told. She wrapped herself in her warmest coat, fastened her daggers to her side, and grabbed her staff.

When she stepped out of her cabin, the icy wind struck her hot skin with such mercilessness it stole her breath before she could even shut the door behind her. When she finally lifted her eyes to the sky, it only got that much harder to breathe.

Her dream – the wild, restless, stormy red dream that had plagued her for weeks – came back to her when she saw it. The torn sky. A shattered, broken world flooded with demons… It was coming true.

 _"That_ is the Breach," Cassandra said, making her jump. "An unprecedently large rift in the Veil. It and the mark your hand are connected somehow."

Elia continued to gape up at the swirling green vortex. It was monstrous in size and greedily drinking in the sky. Huge mounds of earth were held in its grasp, floating high in the air. Lightning-like streaks flashed all around as blazing green debris fell from its wide, open mouth.

"It's… terrifying."

"Our hope is that your mark will be able to stop it from spreading further. Perhaps even close it. If not, it may swallow all of Thedas."

"Is it… over the temple?"

"Yes, and no." Cassandra began walking. "Just before the Breach appeared, there was a terrible explosion. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is no more. You are the only one who survived the blast. Our soldiers saw you walk out of the Fade through one of the smaller rifts then collapse."

"Out of the _Fade?_ Like... _physically?"_

Cass nodded.

Elia opened her mouth, trying to speak. "But… But that's…"

"Impossible," she confirmed. "Or should be. But there were several witnesses. They saw another woman behind you in the Fade as well." She stopped and studied Elia. "You do not remember any of this?"

Elia shook her head slowly. "Things are starting to come back to me... But no. Not yet, at least."

"For your sake," she said lowly as they continued through the village, "I hope you remember soon."

People stopped and stared at the pair as they passed. Some looked frightened, others angry. Elia could hear them muttering. Some called her a traitor, a murderer. Others shushed those voices, reminded them of how the Soothsayer had tried to warn everyone away from the temple just before the explosion. Another voice brought up her connection with the explosion in Kirkwall, and another about the suspicious timing of her warning, then one about her sneaking around the village in the days prior. More people joined in the debates until she couldn't pick out who was saying what.

"The people are torn," Cassandra told her once they were further away. "On the one hand, you are the Divine's Soothsayer and have a decade long history of serving Thedas in Most Holy's name. On the other, you are the lone survivor of an explosion that _killed_ the Divine and all Her possible successors with a mark linking you to the Breach. It doesn't help that you and your magic are already known for being… _different_."

Elia nodded. She looked up at the broken sky again. "I honestly don't understand how _anything_ could cause such a huge tear in the Veil like that — even magic."

"That makes two of us," Cassandra grunted.

"Cass… Be honest with me. Do you really think I did this?"

"I…" She huffed. "I don't know. You warned us of a coming fight and ordered those traveling the Pilgrim's Path to turn back before the explosion... But you and you alone were the survivor of the blast— escaping through the _Fade_ , of all things. And that mark…" She gave Elia a serious look. "I want to believe you had nothing to do with it. That this is just a bizarre coincidence, a big misunderstanding, but... Until we have proof, I'm afraid we cannot rule out the possibility."

"Proof?"

"Most Holy is _dead_ , Elia. If we— _you_ cannot find a way to clear your name, then I'm afraid—" She sighed roughly. "I'm afraid it may not matter what I think."

Elia kept her eyes on the path. "Will they execute me?"

"Not without a trial," Cassandra assured her. "I can promise you that much. You have done too much good for Thedas to be sent to the sword without one."

Elia hummed and stared up at the Breach. She used to think she was doing good in the world. That her visions gave her the power to help people; that she was changing the future to make things better than they would be otherwise. But now… she wasn't so sure.

Nothing she did ever turned out right. She always strove to do the "right" thing, to ensure the "good" future, but even when she managed to claw her way to victory, it never mattered in the end. None of it.

She could never stop the coming madness, could never truly save the people of Thedas. All she did was push off the inevitable. Or force its hand in different ways. There was no way to truly escape the chaos trying to swallow the world around them. Hell, even the Temple of Sacred Ashes – the resting place of Andraste _Herself_ – had been devoured in that chaos. And Elia might be the cause of it.

Her eyes pinched shut. She couldn't imagine it. The temple, nestled in the small valley near the mountain tops for so many ages, now gone. She remembered the first time she saw it all those years ago at Johanna's side. Back when the Pilgrim's Path was little more than a thin, well-hidden trail that led up and into the mountain. Emerging from that dark, drake filled cavern to find the golden temple sitting there, glittering in the sunlight as if the Maker Himself were smiling down on it… It was the most breathtaking sight she'd ever seen.

Nowadays, there was a proper road that led straight to the temple. She'd gone up there with Justinia a few times when they'd first arrived but it was… different from before. The air of magic and reverence that pulsed from deep within the mountain was still there, but something was missing. She knew, of course, that Andraste's ashes had long since mysteriously disappeared – and would gladly fight _anyone_ who dared to suggest they'd never been there in the first place – so perhaps that was it. Or maybe it was just strange to enter the holy temple so easily compared to what they'd had to face that first time.

Elia scowled at herself. She needed to focus on what was happening now. Not the long-ago past. As she and Cassandra fought their way toward the temple, she spent whatever few moments she had to herself trying to dig through her memory. She remembered riding Flint up to the temple, telling the people to turn around, and then… She still didn't know.

Eventually, they ran into another mage and a rogue fighting off a set of demons. Elia recognized the dwarf – Varric – from her visits to Kirkwall. He was good in a fight and she didn't feel the need to worry over him. The other mage, a bald elf, also clearly knew how to handle himself in combat. But this fight was different from the others. Rather than just raining down from the sky, the demons here were pouring through an angry and wildly potent crystalline tear in the Veil.

Once the last demon was cut down, the elf grabbed her wrist and yanked her marked hand towards the rift. The mark and the tear flared as if recognizing each other. A green molten-like tether sprung between the two, crackling and dripping with overwhelming power. All the air in Elia's lungs was sucked out by the pull of it. Her body, usually so hot, began to cool. The mark itself felt bitingly cold, as if it were drawing every ounce of heat and life out of her.

Just when she thought her body would collapse in on itself, the rift and her mark flashed. The tear disappeared. The chill eased.

Elia jerked her hand to her chest and gasped for breath. It was so cold. _So cold._

She stared at the elf like he had an extra set of eyes. "How in the world— What—"

"A theory," he said with a light, flickering lilt that gently carried his words. "One I am glad to find correct. With that rift closed, creatures from the Fade will be less likely to cross through here."

"So this thing _can_ close rifts," Elia said staring at it. She smiled up at Cassandra. "That means it could work on the Breach!" The two shared a hopeful look.

"And here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever," Varric said in his distinctly sturdy-but-playful, coarse-but-smooth voice.

"Hello again, Varric," Elia said smiling.

He twirled his hand and gave her a lighthearted bow. "Lady Soothsayer. _Un_ surprised to see me?" he asked with a knowing grin.

She wasn't. She'd known not long after Cassandra left for Kirkwall that he would likely be brought back with her.

Even though they'd only met a handful of times before, Elia had been looking forward to seeing the dwarf again. His easygoing charm and witty remarks made him a fun, easy person to be around. It didn't hurt that, despite only ever using her title, he always spoke to her like a longtime pal rather than an agent of the Chantry. People who treated her like that were rare, but they were her favorite kind of people.

"The demons are an unexpected touch," she quipped.

He chuckled then shook his head, perhaps cursing his luck. "Good thing Bianca and I are here to help, then."

 _"Varric,"_ Cassandra hissed, marching toward him.

Elia knew that tone. She turned quickly to the elf, not wanting to get between the Seeker and the Storyteller.

"So! You!" She hurried to the other side of him, letting Cassandra and Varric have their own space. "I haven't seen you before."

He chuckled. "I'd imagine not. My name is Solas. You are Elia, yes?" he asked with a tilt of his head. "Soothsayer to the Divine?" His mouth moved around her title with curiosity.

Elia's pleasant expression faltered. She spared a glance up at the Breach as the guilt bubbled in her stomach.

Soothsayer. Future seer. That was her role. For over a decade, her visions allowed her to aid the Divine and the people of Thedas. And yet she hadn't seen this catastrophe coming. Not soon enough to do anything about it, anyway.

What good was her gift, really, when there were so many lives she couldn't save? Maybe she could have spared the world from this tragedy if she'd just… Just _what?_ She couldn't remember.

"An imperfect art, I assume?"

Her eyes jumped to Solas. His smile was sympathetic.

She turned her gaze back to the Breach and scowled at it. "You might say that."

The Breach and her marked hand flared. Somehow, perhaps through sheer force of will, Elia managed to fall only to a knee. The fire swirled inside her and all around, trying to combat the violent magic aiming to tear her to shreds.

When it ended, the Frostback air was somehow even colder. Or maybe she was just hotter. She could feel the steam rising off her, making the chilly air that much sharper against her blazing skin. Maker, she hated this.

Cassandra went to her side as soon as she stopped steaming and lifted her back onto her feet. The group moved quickly then, stopping only to fight off the occasional pack of demons.

Solas explained what he knew of her mark and the Breach as they went. Elia thanked him for keeping her alive while she slept.

"I did what I could," he admitted as they neared the proper road, "but your will to survive was surprisingly helpful."

She gave him a curious look.

"Your magic," he corrected.

"Oh." She felt herself redden. "I apologize if I burned you."

He shook his head. "I am a mage, too," he said as if that made any difference – which she knew it didn't. "If I'm being entirely honest, Soothsayer, from what I can tell, even without that mark your magic is quite… _unique_ compared to other mages."

Elia bit her lip and let out a high-pitched sound as Varric scoffed and Cassandra snorted.

Solas looked between the three of them. "I… take it this is not news?"

"Chuckles," Varric began, "you have _no_ idea."

Elia cleared her throat, trying to stop herself from snickering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up the next "chapter" is a codex entry so it's very, very short! I decided to only post codex entries before or after an actual chapter update because... idk it just seems nicer than throwing 400 words at y'all and booking it.
> 
> Anyway, I kinda ended up more-or-less following the actual game in this one but it's still kind of its own thing since Elia isn't really a random nobody like the in-game Inquisitor was at this point. I hope that made it interesting!
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! 💕 Cullen's pov is next! (I'm not sure if I'm always gonna switch from one to the other every chapter, but it's working out that way right now so we'll see!)


	4. Codex Entry

**Codex Entry:**

_Soothsayer to the Divine:_

_Most Holy's Most Contentious Agent – Chapter One_

_Written by Brother Genitivi_

I have been granted the enormous honor by Divine Justinia V to provide the people of Thedas with a clear understanding of Her most peculiar agent, Elia Winters-Desrochers, better known as the Soothsayer to the Divine. The hope is that this work will help ease the minds of the faithful by assuring them of the Soothsayer's place within the Chantry, her duty to the Divine, and above all her devotion to the will of the Maker and His Bride.

Through careful examination of records supplied by Most Holy Herself – many belonging to Her predecessor, the late Divine Beatrix III – and the Desrochers family of Orlais, as well as first-hand accounts from the Left and Right Hands of the Divine and my own experience with the Soothsayer during the Fifth Blight, I have crafted a comprehensive compilation of Winters-Desrochers's life and deeds thus far.

Let us first begin by putting to rest the greatest cause of tension and debate amongst the faithful. As declared by Divine Beatrix III not long after the end of the Fifth Blight, "The Soothsayer's studies of divination do not make her a prophet. It is true her talent for the practice is considerable compared to other mages, but to suggest she is as Our Lady Andraste was is nothing short of blasphemy." – 9:31 Dragon.

Divine Justinia V adds to the matter thusly:

"Make no mistake: The Soothsayer is an incredibly unique individual. She has a great gift for interpreting the world around us, but her magic is used as Andraste instructed: to serve man. She aids others in the Maker's name, but she is not Andraste reborn nor the Maker's new prophet. She is but a steadfast servant of Theirs, using her talents to do the Maker's will, as would any other dedicated member of the Chantry."

The Lady Soothsayer herself has insisted the same stance throughout the years. With so many knowledgeable voices insisting this be the case, we the faithful owe it to them to allow this particular aspect of the debate be settled.

Let us instead turn our focus onto the remaining debates that have caught fire within the Chantry, the Circle, and across Thedas. Namely of the Soothsayer's origins, talents, the manner in which she earned her title, and whether or not a mage (regardless of fealty to the Divine) can truly be considered part of the Chantry.


	5. 9:41 Dragon – 16th of Firstfall

**9:41 Dragon – 16th of Firstfall**

Village of Haven

Cullen cleared his throat. _Loudly_.

The poor excuse of a guard turned toward him and went pale. "C-Commander!" He hurled his fist against his chest then let out a low whine of pain.

The second guard winced in sympathy. She saluted him as well, but Cullen's frown did not falter.

"If this post is too _difficult_ for you two—"

"No, ser! Not at all! We were just—"

The second guard jabbed him in the gut. _"Shut it,_ " she hissed. "You're not supposed to interrupt your superiors!"

"What? Oh! Right. Uh, sorry, ser…"

Cullen took a long, deep breath. _Why_ did he agree to this again? "What are your orders?"

The man saluted again. "Ser, to guard the Herald's— I mean, the Soothsayer's cabin, ser!"

"And alert Lady Cassandra when she wakes up, ser," the second added.

"Good. Now, perhaps if you two weren't standing around gossiping like old hens—" he gave each of them a solid scowl, "—I might feel more confident in your ability to _follow_ those orders."

The cowering guards shared a panicked look. The woman straightened her stance.

"We've very sorry, ser," she said. "It won't happen again."

Cullen continued to eye the two of them. The woman braced herself as the man beside her nearly crumbled under his stare.

"Do _not_ let me catch you slacking off again," he said in a clipped tone. "The Soothsayer's safety is your only concern. Am I understood?"

They nodded quickly.

"Yes, ser!"

"Absolutely, ser!"

He nodded once, dismissing them, and they scampered to their proper positions beside the cabin door. They stood straight as rods.

Cullen studied them a brief moment, almost satisfied with how they were holding themselves now. His eyes flickered to the cabin they were guarding. There was an energetic stillness about it, just as there had been since he arrived in Haven. It made him nervous. Or perhaps it was just knowing who resided there…

He nodded at the soldiers once more then turned on his heel for the chantry, his original destination. He'd veered off course purely by mistake. Not that anyone would've noticed. _Everyone_ in the village seemed to find some reason or another to turn down the small path of cabins as they passed. In fact, it was more noticeable for a person _not_ to.

The path was constantly crowded with people from all walks of life. All gossiping, all hoping to be one of the first to see the "Herald of Andraste" emerge from her cabin. Cullen couldn't blame them. After all, the Soothsayer had done so many impossible things in such a short amount of time – sealing the rifts in the valley, quelling the Breach, walking out of the Fade, possibly speaking with Andraste Herself – who _wouldn't_ be talking about her? Who _wouldn't_ want to see her, congratulate her, thank her? She'd saved their lives. Their standing around, talking, _breathing,_ was nothing short of a miracle. And they owed it all to her.

But the job was not done.

Though the Soothsayer had done the phenomenal and impossible in stabilizing the Breach, it was not sealed. It could reopen at any moment, continue tearing the sky apart, and perhaps engulf the world. So as much as he could understand the people's desire to see her, to thank and revere her, she needed to recover in peace. Because once she woke, once she was rested enough, she would have to try again.

The Chantry – what was left of it, anyway – didn't like that. Nor did they care for her newly acquired title. Without a Divine to control her or anyone of high enough ilk to quash the idea of her being Andraste's chosen messenger, many were calling for the Soothsayer's return to the Grand Cathedral. According to Sister Leliana's sources, they wanted her and the hallowed reputation she was quickly amassing to be contained. Few in power liked the idea of her being outside Val Royeaux as it was.

Cullen scowled. As if being the only one able to mend the bloody hole in the sky wasn't a good enough reason for her to be "out of town". He was disappointed with how things were turning out, but not surprised. Even before the whole Herald business, even when Her Perfection was still alive, the Lady Soothsayer venturing beyond Her immediate reach always caused a certain amount of disruption in the world.

Many believed she only left the Divine's side in dire circumstance and that her arrival forbode a coming catastrophe. Cullen wasn't one for such superstitions but couldn't deny the Soothsayer only ever ventured to Kirkwall when the city's most disastrous events were on the horizon — which, for Kirkwall, was saying something.

Even across the Waking Sea, word of her departing Val Royeaux always came quickly. Supposedly, none but those in the Divine's closest circle ever knew where she was headed. That put many on edge. People gathered and questioned the possibility of Kirkwall being her destination. Those who felt powerless and wronged hoped the Lady Soothsayer would come and bring a wave of upheaval to the city; those in power prayed that not be the case.

Approaching the village chantry, Cullen shook his head slightly. It was hard to believe at times – most of the time actually; whenever he dared to think on it – that that fearful, fretting mage he'd known back in Ferelden's Circle Tower was now one of the most formidable figures in all of Thedas. Putting the two side by side in his mind was always surreal. They barely registered as the same person.

But that was the point. After all, the Elia _he'd_ known had no noble ancestry, no hidden connection to the Sunburst Throne. She had no special teachers or treatment in the Tower, no righteous reasons for "choosing" fire and "divination", nor anything else that ridiculous book said.

He hadn't read it. Not entirely, anyway, but he'd tried once. A fellow templar lent him their copy not long after it came out, but Cullen could hardly get through the first chapter, let alone the rest of it. The discussions it prompted around him – and questions it occasionally earned him – confirmed the rest of it was just as absurd as its opening pages.

Such brazen lies, facilitated by the _Divine_ of all people, created swells of disgust and outrage that erupted without warning. It was just more proof that mages, even ones as seemly timid and harmless as Elia, couldn't be trusted. That they would do anything to grab and hold power. When he saw her again, lying through her teeth, acting like that book's word was law, it only enraged him further.

Now, he was older. He'd calmed some since then and was trying to see things… differently. As much as he still detested the whole thing, he could at least understand why it was done. After all, what else could the Divine have done? She had before Her the first genuine prophet since Andraste Herself. If She did not keep and use Elia's gifts in the name of righteousness, they could've easily fallen into the wrong hands; the Hero of Ferelden, for all the good she did, proved that.

Once her talents became known, Elia was terrifyingly valuable. But everything about her was too dangerous for the Chantry to openly accept. A no-name half-elf with bizarre, barely controllable magic, standing beside the Sunburst Throne, delivering the future from her dreams like the Holy Prophet Herself? There was no way.

Unless she was stripped down and rewritten into the most perfect, non-threatening vassal of Chantry devotion, there was no way such a person – such a _mage_ – could have been accepted, let alone tolerated. Even with all the lies making her more… _palatable_ , her position in the Chantry was just _barely_ tolerated and only truly accepted by the common folk.

Or had been, anyway. Cullen didn't know how the world regarded her anymore. Not really. The Soothsayer was only his concern when the Maker forced her into his life. Otherwise, she only crossed his mind at low moments, and only briefly.

The rebellion, the war, the shambled state of Kirkwall… All he'd had time for in the past 4 years was the long, grueling attempt to get those entrusted to him through each day. That, and the slow-growing seeds of disillusionment, doubt, and discontent gnawing at him every step of the way.

Then the Seeker came to Kirkwall.

And now he was here.

And, _oh_ , he was here alright. Even from down the corridor, Cullen could already hear the angry voices bleeding through the door of the chantry's back room.

He stifled a groan. Part of him desperately wanted to turn around and avoid more of the same fight with the chancellor. But Lady Cassandra wasn't one to waste anyone's time. If she had summoned him, it was because he was needed. If she summoned him while Chancellor Rodrick was present… He couldn't imagine it was anything good.

The torches and candle flames flickered slightly as he stepped into the room. He shared a nod with the two templars guarding the door but no one else acknowledged him. There wasn't even a moment's hesitation in the arguing.

It was the same back-and-forth of the past few days. Chancellor Rodrick was arguing on behalf of the remaining Chantry members who wanted the Soothsayer shackled and brought back to Val Royeaux for trial – or at the very least jailed until the next Divine was elected. The rest of them refused.

"For the last time, Chancellor," Sister Leliana hissed, "there is no telling _when_ there will be another Divine. All the most likely candidates were taken from us in that blast. We—"

"A blast the Soothsayer warned no one about _until_ the Divine and Grand Clerics were perfectly positioned for the slaughter!"

"Enough!" Cassandra roared. "Elia is the one who _closed_ the rifts and sealed the Breach. She is the reason any of us are still alive!"

"You allow your familiarity to cloud your judgment, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. The Soothsayer _failed._ For all we know, she intended it this way!"

"You speak to us of clouded judgment," Leliana shot back, "and yet you would allow our only hope to rot in a cell beneath the Grand Cathedral based solely on personal resentments!"

"How dare—!"

"We _need_ her, Rodrick. The _world_ needs her. Just this morning I've received word from several of my contacts. Rifts similar to the ones we faced in the valley have appeared elsewhere, across southern Thedas."

Cullen steeled at the news. More rifts meant more demons spilling into the world. More people who were likely fighting, begging for the waves to end, and _dying_ at the demons' hands. Perhaps dying at this very moment.

"We need her now more than ever," Cassandra agreed. "She is likely the only one who can close those rifts."

"No! We cannot trust her so readily. Not when she's the one who likely _caused_ this mess in the first place!"

Cullen scowled. "You can't be serious, Chancellor." He gestured back toward the village. "The Soothsayer ran headfirst into swarms of demons to protect our people. She came to our aid willingly and turned the tide of battle by sealing those rifts. If she truly intended to wreak havoc upon the world, why do any of that? Why not join in with the demons or rip the Veil further to finish the job?"

The chancellor held up his hands. "I will not waste my time attempting to understand the workings of such a plot."

"Yet you will stand here and waste _our_ time?" Cassandra asked, irate.

The arguing continued.

Cullen's head pounded through it all. He pinched the bridge of his nose, growing more restless and infuriated by the minute. _Why_ was he here?

Why did Cassandra call him here for another round of senseless arguments with the chancellor? _They_ were the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, arguing with the _High Chancellor_ over the _Divine's_ _Soothsayer_. This was a Chantry fight, not his. He was just an ex-templar; a former knight-captain now commanding a force that, technically speaking _,_ did not yet exist. Not publicly, anyway.

Why had he even agreed to that? To this? He wanted to _do_ something. Help the world make sense again. If he wanted to sit idly and deal with the red tape of chantry politics, he could've easily done that within The Order.

Yet, despite his current grievances, he couldn't deny that Cassandra's vision had called to him. The Inquisition was a chance to make a difference. A _real_ difference. To stop the madness and restore peace — something he'd tried but been unable to do within the confines of The Order.

In some respects, it had been surprisingly easy to leave his old life behind. He always imagined leaving the Templars as far more complicated than it turned out to be. On their journey across the Waking Sea, during one of the few moments he wasn't clinging to the side of the ship in agony, the Seeker confessed his leaving _was_ easier than most.

The Soothsayer had seen no vision of the future where he wouldn't accept the offer. So things had been quietly prepared while the Seeker carried out her investigation. Only once everything was in place did Lady Cassandra officially offer him the role.

That… surprised Cullen. He was still unsure how the whole thing made him feel. On the one hand, he was grateful for such an easy departure from The Order. But on the other… It was discomforting to know his decision had, in a way, already been made months prior to his knowledge.

He was no longer used to that, to his future being known. Even back when he was, it was never anything so… grand. Just little things. Where he'd next be assigned in the Tower, the next prank to be on the lookout for, his helmet going missing – _again_ – and where he might find it. Never anything so dire. So certain.

The future is never certain. Elia had always been the first to admit that. Things could change drastically at a moment's notice. Different possibilities solidified and crumbled as people acted and pieces shifted, but there was no assurance of what would _truly_ come to pass until it actually passed.

And yet, there was _no_ future where he'd refused. _No_ future where he'd stayed with The Order. Him joining the Inquisition was as inevitable and certain as the sun rising. Something about that bothered him.

He didn't regret his decision. This path was the right one to take, he was sure of it, but the lack of possibility… It ate at him. So much so, that for the rest of the journey, he often thought of different ways he might pull El— the Soothsayer aside and ask if it were true.

"We will _not!_ I forbid it!"

 _"You_ are not the authority here, Seeker!"

"Oh?" Leliana taunted. "And you are?"

Cullen shook his head at the lot of them. "There's _no_ authority here," he grumbled.

"And that means, what?" the chancellor shot back. "We can forgo sanity?"

"Forgo—" Cullen fumed. "How is wanting to save lives forgoing sanity?"

"The Soothsayer—"

"Saved our lives! If you lock her up now, there'll be no one to close those rifts! The casualties would be—"

"That is speculation at _best!"_

"How is it speculation when we've seen it firsthand?" Cassandra demanded. She began listing off their own casualties and struggles.

Cullen forced air into his lungs and out his nostrils, trying in vain to ease his throbbing head as the chancellor continued to push against the clear path in front of them. He tried calming himself by focusing on the Soothsayer's visions of him – or lack thereof – and how he hoped to speak to her about it.

Except… that would require actually _speaking_ to her. And that was something he wanted to avoid. They would have to speak at some point, Cullen knew, but he was more than happy to push that off for as long as possible.

He'd managed to avoid her entirely before the start of the Conclave. Every time he entered the humble village, he went to his destination as quickly as possible and never lingered a moment longer than necessary. Each step of the way, he silently begged Andraste for the white-haired mage to be busy elsewhere.

As much as he wanted to know the truth of what she'd seen, the idea of _actually_ running into her made him… uncomfortable, to say the least. They hadn't been on good terms in… a very long time. Much of that was his own fault. He could admit that now. To himself, at least.

He was working on that. His goal was to become the kind of man who could face the consequences of his actions. The kind who was brave enough to apologize for what he'd done while knowing he might never be forgiven. One strong enough to work at righting his wrongs despite the likelihood of it never being enough.

Little by little, he was becoming that man. At least, he hoped he was. There was still far more he had to do, and he often felt he was fighting a losing battle, but he'd made too many mistakes with his life already. Even if it was too little too late, he wanted to make up for what he could, as best he could, with what time he had left.

But when it came to Elia— _the Soothsayer_ , any steps he'd taken toward that goal seemed to shrivel at his feet. She was his Black City, his greatest sin; the starkest reminder of who he once was and everything he'd willingly – _eagerly_ – thrown aside in the name of… He didn't even know anymore.

It was pathetic. Andraste surely answered his prayers out of pity alone. After all, if they _had_ run into one another, what would there have been to say beyond the stiff, awkward pleasantries? He wouldn't have had the courage, nor the strength, to ask her anything of merit. Even if he had, she probably wouldn't have answered him.

No, it was better they first ran into each other as they did, on the battlefield. Things were always easier between them when there was chaos and fighting around. It stole Cullen's focus and distracted him from everything else her presence usually reminded him of.

True, the sudden wall of flames that shot up around him made him panic – he'd mistaken it for a rage demon's attack – but when the flames spun into a fiery cyclone and shot into a nearby shade, he knew it was hers and was grateful to have her in the fight. Watching her actually _close_ the rift afterward felt unreal. Almost as unreal as the "ghost" that appeared moments later.

"We were there, Chancellor. _You_ weren't," Cassandra spat. "We _saw_ the vision of Elia running to the Divine's side. We _heard_ Most Holy calling to her for help."

"So _I've_ heard." Rodrick turned up his nose. "I've _also_ heard there were visions of a girl scampering about the temple like a frightened _rat._ They say she looked remarkably like the Lady Soothsayer… but with the ears of an _elf!_ The Soothsayer! With elf ears! Explain _that!"_

The light from the torches and candles flickered.

Cullen briefly eyed the nearest flame before slowly turning toward Sister Leliana. The spymaster made no move to acknowledge his gaze. She hadn't been there for the first few "ghosts", but he and Cassandra told her what they'd seen. She agreed they were likely from back then, when she, Elia, and the Hero of Ferelden first found the Temple of Sacred Ashes during the Fifth Blight.

The elven apostate, Solas, confirmed it as well: the image of the young, frightened Elia was just as reflective of real events as those of the Soothsayer running to the Divine's aid. But there were very few around who would believe that. As the chancellor had said, the younger apparition still had those tight, pointed ears of Elia's youth.

Admittedly, whenever Cullen saw her in his mind's eye, she still looked like that; like the Elia he'd known back then. Seeing the ghost side-by-side with the woman she was today reminded him – yet again – that this was not the case. _Elia of the Circle Tower_ and _Elia Winters-Desrochers, Soothsayer to the Divine,_ were two very different people. Their history, their upbringing, their magic, even their ancestry… all different.

To him, her carved ears were just another piece of that elaborate lie. To the rest of the world, there was never a lie to begin with; the Soothsayer was simply who she'd always been. And what she'd always been was completely and totally human.

"The Veil was damaged by the blast, Chancellor," Leliana said after some hesitation. "The Breach is proof enough of that. I would imagine," she continued, glancing at Cullen, "that it is possible the energies of the Fade may have been damaged as well." She turned to Cassandra. "Or at the very least altered by it."

"I suppose…," Cassandra began cautiously, "that… _could_ affect how the reflections appeared here, in the physical world…"

Cullen glared at the table. He wondered if she knew the truth or if Leliana was working to convince _her_ as much as Rodrick.

A hot rage bubbled in his chest. _This_ was why he hated that book so much. Fiction was considered fact; the truth was open to debate. If the truth didn't match the fiction, it had to be rewritten until it did. To speak against the "facts" of the Soothsayer's life wasn't an option. Few would take you seriously if you did. So, if you were like him and _did_ know the truth, you had no choice but to go along with the lie. Either by agreeing and adding to it or by keeping quiet.

Cullen preferred the latter.

Rodrick noticed.

"Tell me, _Commander_ ," he sneered. "You were a Templar, weren't you? A knight-captain, if I'm not mistaken. Certainly _you_ understand the workings of magic and the Veil. Is such a thing possible?"

Cullen scowled at the man. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword and gave the most honest answer he could. "It shouldn't be. But had you asked a week ago, I would've said the Breach and its rifts were equally impossible."

"Fair enough," the chancellor grumbled. He jerked up his chin. "But how are we meant to believe these visions of the Soothsayer with the Divine are true if the damaged energy— magic— whatever it is, is changing people's appearances? How can we trust them to hold any basis with what happened in reality if the impossible is being reflected as well?"

Cullen narrowed his eyes. What was he meant to say to _that?_ He could feel a pair of eyes drilling into him. Probably Sister Leliana willing some lie or another into his head. He was trapped, and they both knew it.

Damn that blasted book. Damn all these lies! He knew the visions were real. He knew they were true. So did Leliana! Lying now only bolstered the chancellor's argument and took away the validity of theirs! But telling the truth at this point was useless. Fiction was "fact"; the truth was "false". All he could do was go along with it.

Cullen tightened his jaw. No. No, that wasn't all he could do.

He refused to play these games any longer. He was here to bring order, not dreg on with lies or argue with the Chantry. They knew the truth. They knew what had to be done. It _would_ be done. End of discussion.

"Perhaps we can't," he admitted, strengthening his resolve. "But the Soothsayer's actions in the valley and at the Temple of Sacred Ashes were clear to all who were present. She acted to end the horror, not further it, and that is indisputable."

Chancellor Rodrick moved to speak again, but Cullen wasn't finished.

"Furthermore, she and she alone is the only one who can mend the rifts. Just as she is likely the only one who can properly close the Breach." He spared a glance at the templars who still stood silently beside the door. "Provided she has more aid next time."

"Next time!?" Chancellor Rodrick followed his line of sight then turned on him again. "Are you _mad!?_ You want to give that reckless mage _more_ power?"

"There's an idea," Leliana muttered to herself.

Cullen shook his head. "If she had enough templar support, they could help stabilize the Breach further and make it easier to mend."

"Or reopen! She could use that moment to destroy us all! Finish what she started!"

He shook his head again, scowling. "That's not—"

"Elia _didn't_ start this!" Cassandra snapped. "But she _will_ finish it! She is the only hope we have, and we will _not_ be debating this matter any further!"

Rodrick moved forward, forcing his words through a tight jaw. "You. Have. No. Authority." He turned and shot a finger at the templars. "You two! Go to the Soothsayer's cabin and shackle her! I want her ready to depart as soon as she—"

"Disregard that!"

"Ignore her! Do as I say!"

"Don't you dare!"

The templars shifted with uncertainty. The dark blue of their uniforms meant they were Knight-Divines, members of the Divine's own personal guard. They'd undoubtedly taken orders from both the chancellor and the seeker in the past. But who, between the two of them, were they meant to listen to when there was no true authority behind either? No one seemed to know.

"The Soothsayer is suspect! Go, shackle her now!"

"Stay where you are!"

Cullen's brain beat like a heavy drum against his skull, the pressure surging around his temples. It was bad enough to listen to the yelling, it was bad enough to even be arguing about this in the first place, but to drag these knights into it, too?

"That's an order!"

 _"Enough!"_ he roared. "The both of you are behaving like children!" He turned to the templars. "You two, go stand guard at the front of the chantry until we've finished — _now!"_

Cullen wasn't sure if it was the tone of his voice or just an eagerness to escape the situation, but as soon as he gave the order the Knights-Divine turned without hesitation and the left the room.

The chancellor slowly turned on him. "How _dare_ you."

"I will not have you," he briefly rounded his glare onto Cassandra, " _either_ of you, using those men as playthings in the heat of your squabbling."

"You, ser, are in _no_ position—"

"The Soothsayer stays," he declared. "We mend the rifts and fix the Breach. End of discussion. If you have a problem with that, Chancellor, then—"

He stopped. If he had a problem with it, then… what? He couldn't actually threaten the High Chancellor… Could he? He didn't want to, but he couldn't— _wouldn't_ abet this nonsense any longer. The path before them was obvious. Anyone trying to get in the way of that was clearly in the wrong.

"Then I suggest you leave," he said finally, "and let us handle this."

Chancellor Rodrick's face turned a dark red as he seethed, nearly choking on his words. He aimed his finger at Cullen, his whole body shaking as he slowly began to make his way around the large table.

" _You_ ," he hissed. "You listen here, _boy_."

Cullen scowled and puffed out his chest. He tightened his grip on his pommel and moved to meet the chancellor halfway. Both he and the older man opened their mouths, ready to tear the other apart.

There was a flash of movement, followed by a loud _BANG!_ and a torrent of flames.

The chancellor cried out in alarm and stumbled, falling to the floor. Lady Cassandra lurched away from the table and the sudden figure crouching on top of it, landing in a defensive position.

Cullen jolted into action. His body moved without thought. He lowered his stance, unsheathed his sword, and—

 _"Elia!?"_ Cassandra cried out.

Cullen's body jerked to a halt. He blinked at the intruder, registering her.

The Soothsayer watched him, staying perfectly still. A hefty multicolored cloak spilled over her shoulders, making her white hair pop even more than usual. Its excess pooled around her, nearly swallowing her in its thick fabric.

 _"Soothsayer!?"_ Rodrick barked, sounding half a breath away from a heart attack.

Slowly, she inched her head in the chancellor's direction. Her face was smooth, absent of a readable expression, but her ice-like eyes were set on Cullen's sword.

He frowned. Did she consider _him_ a threat? _She_ was the one who appeared out of thin air!

Cullen resheathed his blade with a huff. Her calculating eyes shifted onto him and he stiffened.

Her gaze was poised but intense. Careful. Guarded. Like she was studying him from behind an unsettlingly realistic porcelain mask. He was grateful when she turned from him at the sound of Leliana's chuckling.

Unlike the rest of them, the Soothsayer's sudden, dramatic entrance hadn't shaken the chantry sister at all. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other with a small bounce. A subtle but proud smile pulled at her lips.

"Nice of you to _drop_ in," she quipped.

The Soothsayer gave her a warm, playful smile. Her entire being seemed to brighten with the action, melting the mask. No longer was she the cold, calculating agent of the Divine. She was Elia.

A tight sourness curdled in Cullen's stomach at the sight. He shifted his attention elsewhere, anywhere, hoping to curb the feeling.

He looked up at the ceiling. Though not terribly high, especially compared to the vaulted ceiling of the chantry's main hall, the rafters in this room were still exposed. He saw no clear path one could take to reach their height, but that wasn't a surprise. Eli— The Lady Soothsayer always found a way to scale the unscalable and reach the impossible. That, at the very least, remained true about her.

But it didn't explain how she got there in the first place. Even if a few of the guards stationed around her cabin were less than ideal, they should've noticed her leaving. Not to mention _everyone_ in the village was eager to see her. It wasn't possible for her to evade _all_ of them, right?

Then there was the chantry itself. There was only one door in and out of the building _and_ only one to this windowless room — which, until just moments ago, was guarded by templars. _Knight-Divine_ templars. So how did she get in here? How long had she been up there? Why had no one reported her missing?

"Lady Soothsayer!" Rodrick exclaimed, back on his feet. "You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Her Perfection, Divine Justinia, several Grand Clerics, and countless others!"

"Oh, give it a rest, Chancellor," Sister Leliana sighed, offering the Soothsayer a hand.

The mage turned and took it, maneuvering herself off the table. As she reached the floor and pulled at her cloak to follow, Cullen saw that it wasn't a cloak at all. Rather, it was a quilt.

"You can try to arrest me if you want," she said simply, working the thick piece of bedding around her, "but I won't go quietly." She wrapped and covered herself as much as possible before continuing. "I know what Most Holy would want me to do and I intend to follow her guidance."

Rodrick scowled. "The Divine is _dead_ , Soothsayer. Unless you have another _gift_ that allows you to speak with the dead," he sneered, "I don't see how you could possibly—"

"I understand your frustration, Chancellor. Really, I do." Her voice was gentle but resolute. "Many people are dead because of my failure to predict what would happen at the Conclave, including the Divine." She lowered her gaze, guilt bleeding into her features.

Her hand slowly emerged from the blanket cocoon. After a moment of staring, it flashed bright green. Everyone else flinched or jerked away from the sight, but the Soothsayer merely stared. When the light faded, she slipped her hand back into the folds of the quilt.

When she lifted her head again, her eyes were sharp as glass.

"I didn't start this mess, but as the others have said, I will help finish it. Beyond that, I will help find those who are responsible and bring them to justice."

"You?" Rodrick scoffed. "Lady Soothsayer, even if you _weren't_ the sole suspect in the Divine's murder, you have the _least_ authority here. You may have been an agent of Most Holy, but you're still a mage."

"Mage or not, she's the only one with the power to help us," Cullen said crossing his arms.

"Careful, Commander," he growled. "Your station is just _barely_ above hers."

"No," Cassandra forced, slicing through the air with her hand. "They're right. Most Holy gave us our orders, and we won't be deterred by you or anyone else." The dark-haired warrior turned on her heel and grabbed a large tome from a small desk at the back of the room.

Cullen glanced over at the other two women, puzzled, and was surprised to find the Soothsayer looking at him again. His stance straightened under her stare. Her face was once again masked and unreadable, but her eyes burned with deep certainty.

Suddenly, it dawned on him what was happening. His face fell open. His heart began hammering as his gaze jumped from her, to the Seeker, to the book being brought forward, then to the Soothsayer again.

Was this really it? Were they finally revealing themselves, their purpose, to the world?

A ghost of a smile passed her lips at his excitement. She gave him a small, gentle nod.

Cullen felt his chest tighten, brimming with budding conviction. He knew this was not a celebratory moment. Splintering off from the Chantry, going against their will… It was no light matter. Even if it _was_ under the Divine's direction.

And yet, he found himself swelling with hope. They were going to find a way to end the chaos, apprehend those responsible, and put the world back together. They were going to face these challenges from beneath the Inquisition's banner.

Cullen was ready, eager to officially begin. He squared his shoulders, smiled, and gave the Soothsayer a strong nod.

Her large eyes lit up then flew to the floor as her careful guise slipped. She pressed her lips together and ducked her chin before producing a small, nervous smile. It was not the kind of smile the Soothsayer would give. It was Elia's.

His stomach soured at the sight, but he didn't turn away. He told himself it was like when she came to Kirkwall. If they stopped to breathe, to think, the past pressed heavily against them. A simple glance, a smile, a frown, could nick at an old wound. The right words could leave them bleeding in agony.

But once the fighting picked up, once there was work to be done, the heavy air about them turned thin. A truce formed between them, as it always seemed to in such dire times, and the Inquisition would be no different. Their grievances would be set aside; they would work together. They'd done it before and could certainly do it again.

But as the Soothsayer turned away with that eerily unreadable mask back in place, Cullen knew that wasn't entirely true. This wasn't just one fight. This wasn't a simple goal. The Inquisition had a longer path, a greater objective, than any they'd had to face before. He prayed their conviction would be enough, that they— that _he_ could keep the past in the past and focus on the present.

As Lady Cassandra publicly declared the Inquisition to Rodrick, Cullen silently swore, once again, his full devotion to it. No matter what, he and the Soothsayer would have to make this work. He wouldn't allow the Inquisition to fail on their account.

He turned to look at her once more, both put off and comforted by the steely expression she wore as the chancellor turned and left. Her sentiments were surely the same. They were committed to making this work and, one way or another, it would.

Even so, Cullen couldn't help but worry. They wouldn't always have an enemy right in front of them. There wouldn't always be an immediate goal. There would be time for them to breathe, to think. In those quiet moments, the air would get thick and the past would resurface once more. When that happened… well…

Cullen prayed he would be strong enough to face it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this had a lot of idk exposition(?) but please let me know your thoughts! 🥰💕


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